Some days, it seems that the only thing that I am made up of, what is truly at the core of me being, consists of nothing but the memories of previous days. For whatever reason, it’s always seemed as though the present goes by in a dull blur, and only once I’ve had a year or two to sort them out, put them in the proper categories, appropriately label and store them in the right file cabinets, do they really mean anything.
Have I become half-human? Am I truly living? Or am I living in the past?
Hardly. This is why, in so many circumstances, I write about the events that seem to awaken me from this walking, half-sleep that I stumble around in. Even my dreams are more real and precious to me than the events unfolding before my very eyes. It is as though I am walking around in a soma-induced fog, barely concious, or even caring, of the explosion of existence going on around me.
So, on at least a daily basis, if not as frequently as I can manage, I attempt to force myself awake, out of this haze of being that all the tribulations of life has caused me to sink into. Truth be told, I want to be unbelievably, inexplicably, and explosively alive.
But, I still cannot deny the simple fact: My memories are more fond to me than what is going on now.
Tonight is one of those nights. Dark, overcast, 30 degrees cooler than it rightfully should be at this time of the year, an eerie phosphorescent amber sheen on the underside of the clouds from a quiet city spiraling down into collective unconciousness. I’ve spent quite a bit of time outside tonight, allowing myself to be buffeted by the cool night breeze that causes every hair to stand on end in the jittery expectation of some bright flash of insight.
A night where you feel like you’re riding on the wind. A night of dramatic precursor to the morning. A night for truly being alive. A night where I jump in my car, roll all the windows down, and tear down some cold desolate stretch of highway with only the horizon as a destination. This is my anti-soma.
Why? Why do I do this? Why I do waste precious gas money on going nowhere and doing nothing?
To have some time alone with my memories, and with them, to return to innocence, at least in my own imagination.
I can even, if I want, have mood music with my memories. I hum, or I sing, or even just remember the tune, and suddenly, I’m watching my own little movie of more innocent, simpler times.
I press play on the memories that I have, and suddenly, I have no control over what flashes through my mind, as the clips that play in rapid succession all bring swelling, complete joy, or burning sorrow, or simple, hopeful contentment from a time in my life when I was more innocent, when life was easier, or at least more understood, and, at least in retrospect, I knew where I was headed.
Now, the only place I know where I’m headed is towards the Interstate overpass, throttle wide open and the gush of wind pouring through the window and mussing my hair.
For half an hour, I can escape the dull ache of present living and let the wind tear through me, to live in the now, even if my only chance of waking up, of returning to my previous innocence, is by reliving the past.
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